The Pitcher's Tale
by GeneticallyElvenGryffindor
Summary: His game was baseball. His life was pitching. Growing up tends to change things for people, even for kids like him. Sometimes growing up means growing out of childish ideas and in unexpected ways. Several small stories about one such person
1. Seven Years of Age

AN: Hiya everyone! First off, this little group of stories has nothing to do with any of my other fanfictions for _The Matrix_…sort of anyway. There's mention of Pixie, from my other stories, but that's about it. Nope, these revolve around one of my other made up characters whose whole story has yet to be told. These little stories, little looks into this character's life, come from the fact my sister and I have very odd musical tastes. See, we both got iTunes gift cards for Christmas and we were trying to decide what we wanted to get. My sister and I have very, very, very, very different musical tastes but we both like the old singer Kenny Rogers, especially his song "The Greatest." I was listening to this song and it reminded me of the main character of these little stories. That's sort of how this mess got started. Anyway, please let me know what you think of these little--- kind of little anyway ---stories. Reviews, as always, are always welcome. I'd love to hear what you think and any advice you have…good, bad, or indifferent!

Disclaimer: I own nothing except the characters I made up and their Real World alter egos. I don't own _The __Matrix_, _The Animatrix_, or any of that cool stuff. I'm broke and I just finished graduate school for my Master's Degree. All I own are my Pointe shoes.

"Little boy in a baseball hat stands in the field with his ball and bat  
Says, 'I am the greatest player of them all'  
Puts his bat on his shoulder and he tosses up his ball.  
And the ball goes up and the ball comes down,  
Swings his bat all the way around  
The world so still you can hear the sound, the baseball falls to the ground". (From "The Greatest" by Kenny Rogers)

Aside from the little diamond he and the other Arcadia Hornets played on, seven year old Robert--- Robbie ---LaLuce's favorite place to play was his own backyard. It wasn't a huge backyard or anything but it seemed huge to the little seven year old.

Robbie wasn't the biggest of boys on the team but he wasn't exactly the smallest either. When the boys lined up in size order, he was always somewhere in the middle of the pack. As far as looks went, he was of average appearance with bright hazel eyes and messy looking dirty blond hair. There was a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose, there mostly because he spent a great deal of his time out in the sun playing.

At the moment, said hazel eyes were peering out from underneath a worn Houston Astros hat that he'd gotten from his father. Robert never went anywhere without his hat, much to his mother's annoyance. She said it made him look messy and unpresentable, whatever that actually meant.

In Robert's head, his mother, Faye, just didn't understand how important the hat was to him. The young boy was lived and breathed the Houston Astros and he had to wear his cap. If he took the cap off the Astros might lose and he didn't want to be responsible for that. He'd always liked watching them win better than watching them lose.

In his seven year old opinion, losing was the worst thing...ever.

Not that winning and losing mattered at the moment to the seven year old. No, he was more concerned with the bigger things in his universe. The rest of the world didn't really matter to him in the same way it didn't matter to lots of kids his age. The world was what they thought it was, nothing more and nothing less.

In his right hand, clutched so tightly that his hand was starting to hurt was his wooden trusty baseball bat. Though, on the field, he had to use a metal bat--- his father, Alan, a former minor league pitcher for the Boson Red Sox,had said many times that metal bats were tools of the devil. Robert wasn't exactly sure what that meant but he figured it had to be bad. ---at home, Robert has his trusty Louisville Slugger.

The wooden bat was heavier than the metallic one he used when he played with his team but his father had said that was alright too. It would only make him stronger, give him the ability to swing his metal bat faster.

Besides, all his favorite major league pitchers used wooden bats. Even though he was only seven, Robert had already decided that he wanted to play baseball for a major league team when he grew up. That much was a given already.

There was just one tiny hitch his in "grand plan." Robert wasn't entirely sure what position he wanted to play yet. On his little league team, he played as both a pitcher and shortstop. It was common on little league teams like his for the kids to play more than one position. Unless someone was especially talented, everyone learned how to do everything on the baseball diamond.

The young boy liked both positions equally so it was hard for him to pick one for him to play on the major league level. Then again, in his mind, he thought he could just do both when he got older. Maybe they'd make an exception for him because he was good at both; at least that's what he figured.

Clutched in Robert's left hand was his favorite practice baseball. There were always baseballs around the house he lived in--- That always made his mother angry. She liked the house as neat as she liked the people living in it. ---but the one he kept with his wooden bat was his favorite one to practice out in the backyard with.

The baseball was a scuffed, dirty thing with stitches that had once been red. Now they were as filthy and frayed as the rest of the ball. Robert knew he was only supposed to use the ball for practice at home.

Well for practice at home and for "seasoning" his gloves. Robert wasn't sure why it was called that, since his mother seasoned food and they weren't allowed to play with those seasonings. His little brother Arthur, four years to his seven years old, often gotten in trouble for doing just that. It was the word his father used when talking about the gloves he played with.

Unlike some on his team, Robert carried two regulation baseball mitts with him whenever his played. He had his pitcher's glove and his shortstop's glove. Even though it was only Little League, as his mother often said, his father insisted that he be properly outfitted for the game. If that meant two gloves than that's what he had to have. His father had said that to him once. Having the right gear was part of the game.

Robert glared at the baseball in his hand, almost daring it to do something other than stay in his hand. He wasn't in the habit of dropping baseballs on the field, even when the ball came at him hard. His father had told him once that only losers dropped baseballs and messed up plays because of it came at them. His father had asked him if he wanted to be a loser and make mistakes that would get him laughed at by his peers.

Robert, wanting to make his father proud of him, had said that he didn't want to be a loser. He was going to be the best baseball player in the world, he'd added, even better than his father had been when he was a younger.

That was one of the many things young Robert didn't really understand. It was one of those things that just confused the seven year old little boy no matter how often he tried to make sense of it.

His father had been a pitcher in the Boston Red Sox minor league system, a long time ago. From what Robert had been told, his father had been an excellent pitcher with the potential to play in the Major Leagues someday. Why his father never actually played major league level baseball was something Robert had never been told.

There had to be a reason, though, for why his father was an accountant instead of a baseball player. He'd asked his father once or twice why he wasn't a famous baseball player--- because everyone knew being a baseball player was a much cooler job than being an accountant ---but he never got his answer. Usually he was sent outside to play or told to go to his room. Whatever the reason was, it was something his father didn't want to talk about.

That was part of why Robert had decided he was going to be a professional baseball player when he grew up. The young boy had gone to work with his father a few times and found it to be extremely boring. Robert figured that being a baseball player wasn't a boring job. If he became a baseball player he'd get to travel to different cities as he played in different stadiums. That was a whole lot more fun, in his seven year old mind, than just sitting in a cramped little office in Arcadia, Texas.

Besides, the young boy figured that if he could play in the major leagues that would make his father proud of him. It would be like his dad playing but not really because it wouldn't be his dad. It would be him, Robert, the famous Major League Baseball Player. Still, the idea was the same to the young boy.

Robert took a deep breath and let it out, staring at the ball in his hand in an almost threatening way. Well, it would have been threatening if not for the fact Robert wasn't exactly vicious looking. There was nothing mean or intimidating about the seven year old boy.

Throwing the ball as high as he could, Robert's other hand flew to the handle of his bat. With all his might, the seven year old swung the bat around in a wild arc in an effort to try and hit the leather covered spheroid that seemed to hang in the air before him for a brief second.

He'd hoped to hear the familiar crack of the bat that meant the bat had connected with the ball. It was a sound--- the ball connecting with the wooden bat ---that Robert had come to know well, even if he was only seven years old. Watching enough baseball games on television and playing in enough little league games, gave anyone a good idea of what a baseball connecting with a bat sounded like.

Robert knew the sound of a baseball connecting with a bat as the greatest sound in the known universe. Probably the greatest sound in many unknown universes as well, actually.

There was nothing better than the crack of a bat as it made contact with a ball. The sound was even better when it meant the ball was going to fly over the outfield fence during a close game. Robert liked watching home runs even though his father had told him time and again that home runs were terrible for new pitchers. They were what broke the confidence of someone coming straight up from the minor leagues or rattled even the staunchest of veteran pitchers.

Despite all of that, the seven year old still liked watching home runs.

In his mind, there was nothing better than watching your favorite player knock in the game winning run on a home run and then get mobbed at home play by the rest of his team. It didn't always happen like that--- the game being won on a home run ---which made it even more fun to watch when it did happen. His team had once won a game like that and everyone got up to mob the batter, his best friend Ben, at the plate.

Robert had pitched part of the game that day so he hadn't been allowed to take part in the mobbing at home plate. It had been fun to watch, though, from the sidelines.

Robert's toss wasn't meant to make such a sound, though. Instead, the boy's toss landed at his feet with a soft, muffled "whump."

"You're swinging too wide Robert," stated a voice, catching the seven year old off guard and, momentarily, making him forget the baseball sitting at his feet.

He wasn't exactly happy with the fact he'd missed again---Since finishing his homework and going out to play, the seven year old had been trying to hit the ball. ---but Robert was determined. He was going to send that ball flying. He wasn't going to keep striking himself out like he'd been doing all day.

After all, good shortstops had to be able to hit. Maybe not hit for power, since shortstops were supposed to be speedy and not strong, but they were supposed to be able to hit something. They had to be able to get the ball in play even if it was just to move a runner over or something like that.

What's more, Robert wanted to be one of those pitchers who knew how to hit. Even though in the National League--- where his Houston Astros played. In his mind, that was the team he wanted to play for someday ---starting pitchers only got to pitch once every five days and there were some relief pitchers who didn't get a chance to hit at all, Robert figured it might be a useful skill to have. It would be awesome, in his mind anyway, if a pitcher won the game with a home run. He was almost sure that was something that never happened.

"Dad!" Robert shouted, throwing his bat on the ground next to the offending ball, and running over to where his father stood. "When did you get home?"

Alan LaLuce,looked down at his scruffy haired older son and triednot to frown as the boy got dust and grit all over the front of the rather bland looking suit he was wearing. As usual, Robert was a royal mess, covered in dirt and dust and a few grass stains. Not only was he a mess but he was playing baseball alone...again. Something his father had told him not to do a thousand times. He could hurt himself by practicing his baseball skills incorrectly.

"I just now got home, Robert," Alan answered, holding his son, lightly, by the shoulders, lest he get any more grit on his suit. "What are you doing back here? I thought I told you no baseball until I got home. You're not supposed to be working on anything without me hereto supervise."

Robert scuffed his shoes in the sandy soil at his feet, trying not to look at his father. He knew he wasn't supposed to be practicing anything on his own--- That was, yet another, thing Robert didn't really understand. All of his friends were allowed to practice by themselves. ---but it was a nice day out and he'd finished all his homework.

Since his brother was too little to play with him and his mother was always "busy" doing things around the house, Robert decided that it was best for him to go outside and play by himself. That was why he'd started practicing. Baseball was always fun, though, it was more fun when it wasn't played alone.

"Just playing dad," Robert mumbled, scuffing his feet on the ground again and accidently kicking dirt onto his father's shiny black shoes. "I wanted to hit better. Ben says that he throws the ball just like that and he always hits it. He even said that he hit the ball out of his backyard once."

Alan shook his head, his frown getting a bit deeper. The whole hitting thing was a sore point for the once pitcher. He'd never been good at it, himself, and he wasn't entirely sure why it fascinated his son. Besides, he was sure that hitting wasn't the way Robert was going to go. Not if he had anything to do with it anyway.

"Well, if you want to hit, you're swinging too wide. You have to close up that stance of yours," Alan told his son, giving him the same advice he'd once heard a minor league hitting coach tell one of the players back during his playing days.

"Can we work on it, dad?" Robert asked, a smile spreading over his freckled face. "Maybe you could show me how to hit better. That way I won't be practicing alone."

Alan shook his head, making Robert frown a bit. He'd been hoping that his father was going to come home and want to play with him. Nothing, in his mind anyway, was more fun than playing baseball with his father. Well, the only thing that came close was playing on the field. There was definitely nothing better than that.

"How about I show you how to throw that ball so no one else can hit it instead?" Alan suggested, taking off his jacket and setting it down with his briefcase on the back porch.

Loosening his tie, Alan walked over to the baseball Robert had, in a roundabout way, left on the ground. He picked up the ball, a wistful smile crossing his face. Alan often wondered just how different his life might have been if he hadn't gotten hurt. He knew that if he hadn't had that car accident that tore his left rotator cuff to shreds he wouldn't be an accountant living in the town he, himself, had grown up in.

"Come here, Robert," Alan said to his son. 'Let me show you how I use to throw my fast ball."

"You mean, the one no one could hit?" Robert wanted to know, his voice mildly amazed. "That one mom said you called the 'eliminator?'"

Alan nodded his head, tossing his son's baseball from hand to hand. Though he'd gotten badly hurt, he still remembered everything about playing the game. If he couldn't play, the least he could do was pass what he knew on to his sons. Maybe one day one of them could play.

Robert smile returned and ran over to his father. Alright, he still couldn't hit the ball but that was no problem.He'd learn how to do that, eventually. At the moment, Robert wanted nothing more than to practice with his father. That seemed like a good way to spend what was left of his day.


	2. Nine Years of Age

AN: Well, Spring Training games have started and the Mets, in typical Mets fashion, have lost their first game. They're my favorite team and everything but the always seem to lose and that drives me insane! I'd like them to win at least once and a while! Talking about baseball, please don't be put off by any of the baseball jargon used here. If any of it is confusing, please let me know! I'll make sure to explain it better next time or something. Though I'm not a super fan by any means--- That would be my sister more than me ---I know some things about baseball. By the way, contrary to what's written here, personally I like keeping score during baseball games. It's about the only thing that keeps me interested in the game. As always, feel free to leave a review and let me know what you think about this little misadventure!

Disclaimer: I own nothing except the characters I made up and their Real World alter egos. I don't own _The __Matrix_, _The Animatrix_, or any of that cool stuff. I'm broke and I just finished graduate school for my Master's Degree. All I own are my Pointe shoes.

"Now the little boy doesn't say a word, picks up his ball he is undeterred.  
Says, "I am the greatest that there has ever been"  
And he grits his teeth and he tries again.  
And the ball goes up and the ball comes down,  
Swings his bat all the way around  
The world so still you can hear the sound, the baseball falls to the ground." (from "The Greatest" by Kenny Rogers)

"That was some game, Robbie," Ben laughed, clapping nine year old Robert on his right shoulder. "You're going to put a hole through my hand one day if you keep throwing like that. I know my hand's totally going to be bruised tomorrow morning."

Robert laughed in an embarrassed sort of way and pulled his yellow and black baseball cap a little further down. Everyone on his team--- that included the team's coach ---often wondered just how Robert saw anything at all. He'd become rather…infamous…for wearing his baseball cap pulled as low as it could possibly go.

No one on the team ever said anything about it, though, since Robert had been converted into a rather reliable left handed pitcher, just like his father before him. It was common baseball knowledge that no one was to annoylefty pitchers. They were all just a bit quirky and it was that quirkiness that gave them their ability to pitch. Without it, well, things tended to get ugly.

Robert's almost innate ability to pitch hadn't really come as a surprise to anyone in Arcadia. His father had been an ace left handed pitcher so it came as no surprise that Robert had become one too. Most in town figured that such things ran in the family, like hair and eye color. Alan had been a great pitcher and now his son was too.

Well, the older one anyway.

Arthur, Robert's little brother, had definitely not inherited his father's baseball skills. It seemed to most of Arcadia that the younger LaLuce son hadn't inherited any athletic abilities at all. Arthur wasn't good at baseball nor was he good at football, the two major sports that were played in Arcadia. He was just sort of there are Robert's little, less athletic brother.

That wasn't the point at the moment, though.

Arthur was sitting in the bleachers, squashed between his two parents in the warm late afternoon sun. The bleachers, metal and still warm from the sun, were a place far removed from the world on the field. Sure their cheers and jeers reached the ears of the boys on the field but they were still far removed from what happened on the field.

Only a select few got to understand that world. Only a select few got to actually be part of what took place within the confines of the miniature jewel of a baseball diamond that the bleachers were all facing.

That select few included a group of nine to ten year old boys who were considered to be the best of the best Arcadia, and some of the smaller towns around Arcadia, had to offer.

Everyone knew that traveling teams were highly competitive. They only took the best of the best players, even at the young ages of nine and ten. It was a point of pride among the teams that competed in their league to have the best of the best players. Anything less than that was considered unacceptable and could get you thrown off of the team.

Robert had been told by his father countless times that he should consider himself lucky to have been scouted for the traveling Arcadia Hornets. The nine year old wasn't entirely sure if he considered himself as lucky as his father made him sound. Baseball was baseball and it was fun, no matter where he played it. He was just glad to play and even gladder to be able to play with his friend Benjamin or, Ben, if you weren't his parents.

Ben was built like the atypical catcher. He was a short, stout but solid looking young boy of nine with blue eyes and buzz cut blond hair. Not only was he built like a catcher, the position he played, but acted like one as well. He was as crazy as they came, unafraid of being run into by opposing players twice his size and weight, yet smart too. No one, in Robert's opinion, called a game quiet like Ben.

Technically speaking, Ben was one of the Hornet's two catchers. There was also Ramon, a very broad and stocky ten year old Spanish boy. He wasn't the team's "everyday" catcher, though. His father didn't want him "ruining" his knees at such a young age.

That didn't exactly matter, though, since Ramon had two flaws going against him. One was that he wasn't exactly the fastest of runners. The coach had often joked that he looked like a bear trying to run on his hind legs. The other was that there was one person on the team he couldn't catch to save his life.

For some reason --- maybe because they were such good friends or because they'd always played together ---Ben seemed to be the only one able to catch Robert's games. He was unfazed by Robert's throws. He didn't seem to care that, at his best, Robert was throwing a lot harder than he should have been at his age.

The fact Robert threw harder than was considered normal was something that had, initially, bothered the spunky, middle aged coach, William Valentine, that coached the nine to ten year old Hornets. Coach Valentine had worried that the strain and stress of throwing so hard at such a young age could cause permanent damage to the boy's still developing bones and muscles. It was, actually, an all too common thing to see happen within the traveling teams. Kids forced to throw too hard at too young an age needing Tommy John Surgery--- a procedure in which tendons were taken from another part of the body and used to replace worn out shoulder tendons---to repair shoulder damage they never should have had in the first place.

In order to allay the coach's fears, as well as many of his own, Alan wound up taking his son for an MRI of his shoulder. Much to everyone's surprise, there were no signs of stress or strain on the Robert's shoulder. It was almost as if he'd never pitched an inning in his life. From the look of things, everything was completely and utterly normal. Not that anyone minded such a result anyway.

The test results might have been extremely weird but Alan had paid no mind to it. As long as his son was able to pitch he was happy. It had been shoulder surgery--- Not Tommy John, though ---that had ended his promising baseball career so many years earlier. He didn't want that for his son. Not when Robert was so young.

Robert, for his part, was just glad that he could play his favorite sport without fear of injury for the moment. Not that he really cared if he got hurt in the first place. It wasn't a good game, in his mind, until he got his uniform dirty and he was tired and sore. He figured that, if there was something wrong with his shoulder, he could always learn to do something else. There were plenty of other positions on the field he could play.

"I'm not doing it on purpose," Robert countered, rubbing the back of his neck with one of his hands. "That's just how I throw. It's the way my dad showed me."

"Yeah well we all know about your father, Robbie," one of the other boys, a pitcher named Billy, pointed out. "My dad still talks about him to this very day. Says he would have been a big deal if he hadn't busted up his arm."

"The first big deal anything to come out of this boring little town," Ryan, a newer player outfielder on the team, pointed out. "Your dad would have seriously put Arcadia on the map."

"Arcadia is on the map, Ryan," Ben countered. "Most people think it's just dust though. We're the town most likely to be ignored or something. No one even knows they're driving through this dump."

'Maybe his dad busted up his arm to pass his pitching skills on to him," the team's third baseman, David, cut in as he strolled across the dugout to retrieve his bat from the rack. "Robbie, you keep pitching like that and we'll take the league this season."

"And the one after that and the one after that until we're all out of this division," Ramon, the backup catcher, quipped from his spot on the bench. "This boy's a monster."

"Shame you can't catch him, you big Ogre," Billy stated, leaning back against the bench with his hands behind his head.

Billy had been in charge of "the book"--- also known as the team's score pad ---during the day's game. It was customary for the next day's starting pitcher to take score in "the book" since it forced them to pay very close attention to the team they were playing, instead of fooling around with the other boys on the bench.

In theory, it would help them when they had to pitch against the opposing team. Generally, though, it wasn't the most enjoyable task on the team. Everyone knew keeping score was the most boring job anyone could be charged with.

"Ogre?" Ramon asked. "Where'd you come up with that one, Billy?"

Billy laughed and answered, "I've been thinking...you know how all the most awesome major league players from back in the day had nicknames. I think we need nicknames too."

"Billy, we all know keeping the book is boring but you're just talking crazy now," David stated, sitting down on the bench in order to take his cleats off. "The heat got to your head or something?"

"No...I think Billy has a good point," Robert admitted, though he knew he really shouldn't egg Billy on any further. "I mean Nolan Ryan was the 'Ryan Express' and there were lots of other really famous players with nicknames. Maybe we should have them too."

"Now, Wheeler gets my point!" Billy blurted. "We want to be like those big guys we need to start acting like them now! That way we've been practicing for years when we all become famous."

Robert gave Billy a side long glance and asked, "Wheeler? Seriously? Why?"

Billy gave Robert a long suffering look and answered, "Robbie, what do you tell every one of us when we ask you how you manage to throw the ball as hard as you do?"

"I don't say anything," Robert stated, taking a cue from David and sitting down to remove his own cleats.

Nothing against his cleats, which were relatively comfortable, but Robert preferred his sneakers. Sneakers were better for after game pizza or whatever else the team had planned to celebrate their victory. Besides, his dad frowned upon him wearing his cleats any place other than the baseball field.

"Yeah you do!" David countered. "You said itCoach Valentinethe other day after we blasted theHoustonWranglersout of the water. He asked you how you always manage to throw so hard and you answered..."

Ben cleared his throat and, in a mimic of Robert's own voice, said, "Aw shucks Coach V. I don't do nothing special. I just wheel back and throw. I don't know why I throw that hard."

The other boys, some sitting and some standing, all captivated by Billy and Ben's antics, laughed. They'd all heard Robert say that at one time or another, no matter how hard Robert tried to deny it. He had no way to explain how he threw so hard and why he was really accurate with his pitches but still he tried, for what that was worth.

"I don't say that," Robert said, starting to laugh himself, "When have you ever heard me say that?"

"Yeah you do!" Billy countered. "That's why you're Wheeler. You always just 'wheel back and throw.' I think it's a good name. What about you, Ben?"

"NoI agree," Ben answered. "Sorry Robbie, I think that's a good nickname for you."

Robert was quiet as he laced up his blue sneakers and put his things away in his bag. He knew Billy had been bored when he'd come up with his little nicknames. That was the only reason why he'd wound up with the awful nickname of "Wheeler."

Still, he had to ask, "Can't you come up with something better? Wheeler's kind of stupid. It doesn't make any sense. I mean, alright Ramon's a big Ogre so that makes sense but what even is a Wheeler?"

Billy shook his head and answered, "Nope...I think it fits you, Wheeler. Anyone disagree with me?"

The rest of the team, now all curious as to what nickname Billy had given them, all seemed to agree with Billy. If anyone did disagree, they weren't saying anything. No, all Billy got in reply was a chorus of agreements when it came to his choice of nicknames for the scruffy looking pitcher.

"Seems like we're all in agreement on this one, Robbie," Billy laughed. "I dub thee...Wheeler!"

Robert sighed, knowing that it had become futile to argue with Billy. All he could do was hope that the whole "nickname" thing would pass so he could get rid of the stupid "Wheeler" moniker. There were plenty of good nicknames for pitchers and, when compared to some of them, "Wheeler" just seemed a little silly. It, certainly, wasn't as amazing as "The Nolan Express" to say the least.

What in the world was a "Wheeler" anyway?

"You have fun with your nicknames, Billy," Robert called. "I think my dad wants to head back home. Something about me having to ice down my shoulder or something like that. I'll catch you guys tomorrow!"

"Alright...Wheeler!" Billy shouted in reply as Robert wandered away from his team and to his parents and brother.

The young man could only hope, as he walked away, that the nickname thing didn't last all that long. Like the rest of his strange jokes, Billy would eventually tire of calling people by nicknames and go back to calling them their real names. If he didn't, well, Robert wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do. He knew, however, he wasn't going to enjoy being called "Wheeler." That wasn't a name for him.


	3. Thirteen Years of Age

AN: Hiya…eighteen days and counting until opening day at for the New York Mets. This is actually the Mets final season at Shea Stadium. After this season, they'll be moving into their new field called Citi Field. I'm not fond of the new stadium, myself, but then I've been going to Shea Stadium for more years than I care to recount because of all the losses I've seen. Anyway, I know I skipped over some time to get to this part of the mini-story but there's a perfectly good reason for doing that. I can't tell you what that reason is just yet, though, because it would spoil lots of things that are to come here and in a few other places. This is just a small bit of a larger story that involves a couple of things that all get tied together…if that makes any sense. Thanks to everyone who's actually reading this! I appreciate you taking your time to do so! To everyone who's left me a review…thanks! You're awesome and you rock like a box of socks. Remember, I'm open to any and every opinion and criticism…good, bad, or indifferent!

Disclaimer: I own nothing except the characters I made up and their Real World alter egos. I don't own The _Matrix_, _The Animatrix_, or any of that cool stuff. I'm broke and I just finished graduate school for my Master's Degree. All I own are my Pointe shoes.

"He makes no excuses he shows no fear  
He just closes his eyes and listens to the cheers." (From "The Greatest" by Kenny Rogers)

When he turned thirteen, Robert expected something amazing to happen. After all, the teachers in school had talked about becoming a teenager since he and all of his friends entered junior high school. They'd said that, when they became teenagers, things would change and everything they did or said would be just a little different. They weren't children anymore, they were teenagers and that meant a whole new set of rules for them to abide by.

Robert--- still being plagued by that whole "Wheeler" nickname thing. It hadn't gone away like he'd hoped it would. ---had taken health, just like everyone in his year, so he figured he was pretty well prepared for the whole "becoming a teen" thing. He'd even had "the talk" with his father, an event that now ranked among the most uncomfortable discussions he'd ever had in his entire life, despite the fact he knew where babies came from.

That said, in theory, he figured he was ready for the big change that was supposed to happen on the day he turned thirteen.

Besides, Robert knew he could count on baseball to still be the same even after he turned thirteen. Still pitching, still showing no wear and tear in his left shoulder despite the fact he'd been throwing breaking balls for about two years or so, Robert knew that baseball would never change. Sure he'd change leagues as he got older and no two games were exactly alike but the game was what it was.

Baseball was timeless...or so his coaches said. It was like in the movie _Field of Dreams_--- Not Robert's favorite baseball movie but one he'd seen many times over. His personal favorite was _Bull Durham_. ----when Terrance Mann said that "America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time….It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again." The game, the positions, even the way certain plays were made hadn't changed and probably would never change. America's pastime was destined to stay as it was; just a game that people kept going back to because they had good memories of the unchanging sport that was baseball.

Robert wasn't a poet or anything by any means but he did really like the idea that baseball never changed. No matter how...weird...being a teenager was supposed to be baseball was going to be the same. In his mind, something constant like baseball was a very good thing.

The strange thing was, on the day of his thirteenth birthday, nothing weird happened. He didn't magically transform into some kind of monster-Robert or evil-teenager-Robert. He didn't suddenly become girl crazy or anything like that. No, Robert decided that he was still himself…just one year older.

As for baseball, that, too, remained the same, right down to his ridiculous nickname both on and off the field. Robert had expected that, though, the fact baseball was always going to be the same.

Then he met Calyx in the dugout after one of his games.

Calyx, a young woman dressed all in black and looking very much like something out of one of the comic books his mother didn't know he liked to read, had scared the daylights out of him and said she'd come to speak with him and him alone. She said that his "special talents" had attracted the attention of several different groups of people. One group, disguised as what he thought were agents scouting for other teams, she said didn't want him using his baseball talents anymore. They'd actually do anything within their power to stop him from using the gift he had.

The fact that Calyx had told him that the black suited scouts didn't want him pitching made no sense to him. Scouts were supposed to want to watch people play baseball and show off whatever talents they had. That was sort of their job. As far as Robert understood it, scouts watched people play and reported back to whatever team hired them about how the team played.

Sure it was a little strange that scouts might try to stop him from playing baseball but, then, Calyx, herself, was more than a little strange. She kept staring around her as if the people filing out of the stands were a threat to her. The only threat, in Robert's mind, was his father who'd come to the game. Whenever his father came to watch him pitch, Robert knew he was going home to "practice" for several hours. No matter how well he did, his father would find fault.

Before she darted off into the setting sun, Calyx had told him to look up the story of a girl named Anneliese Rose. Once he found out everything he could about her, he was supposed to dig deeper into the familiar story. There was another story behind the one everyone in Arcadia knew. There was a story that Calyx wanted him to discover.

There was just one small problem with Calyx's request. Everyonein Arcadia, including Robert himself,knew the story of Anneliese Rose. Looking the situation up didn't exactly help him any. There was no new information to be found.

Still and for reasons that escaped him, Robert obliged the shadowy woman. He got on his father'scomputer and looked up the story ofAnneliese Rose. Every article he found--- and there were many despite the fact Anneliese Rose was from Arcadia like him and Arcadia was a very small town to say theleast---said the same thing.

Every story he'd read, every scrap of news he'd found all said the same thing. They all told the same cautionary tale that he'd heard more than once in his thirteen years of life.

Despite what Calyx had told him, there was no place else for him to look. There was no deeper he could dig given what he had. Robert could think of no other way, other than asking around, to find out more information about Anneliese Rose and what had happened to her several years earlier.

"Dad," Robert broached, as he and his father stood in their backyard playing catch two weeks after his run in with Calyx. "Do you remember the story of Anneliese Rose?"

His father paused in mid-throw--- he was playing catcher to his son's pitcher ---and gave Robert a strange look. The question was definitely unexpected to say the least. It was almost taboo to talk about the whole mess that surrounded the young woman named Anneliese Rose.

"Why are you asking about that girl, Robert?" Alan wanted to know, walking towards his son with scowl on his face.

Robert was supposed to be focusing on his pitching, not on some silly little story that the housewives in Arcadia still like to twitter about. His sonwas beyond such stories, in his father's mind. There should have been bigger and better things on his mind, namely getting his curve ball to properly curve or his knuckleball to actually look like the rare knuckleball.

The young teen thought quickly, glancing around the yard before stating, "It's just for something we were talking about in class today. The teacher wants us to get a better grasp on our own history before we take a closer look at the world's history."

The story was a flimsy one but it was the best he could come up with on the fly. School just seemed like the most logical thing to use as an excuse. His father rarely ever asked what he did in school so didn't really have to worry about his father finding out the story was false.

His father only ever asked about baseball and what he and his fellow Hornets were doing. School, and his doing well in it, came in a very distant second after baseball.

Alan gave Robert a curious look but sighed and answered, "You know the story about that girl. I'm sure your mother's told you it plenty of times."

"She has but isn't there something else you can tell me about it," Robert blurted, trying to convince his father to keep talking. "We're supposed to get the story from all angles, like a reporter. I don't want to do poorly on the assignment. The teacher said if anyone did they wouldn't be allowed to take part in after school sports."

The funny thing was, the latter part of the statement wasn't a lie. There was a long standing "rule" in his school that prevented any kids with poor grades from taking part in any afterschool activities. They were supposed to be either held back for tutoring or sent home to work on the assignments they were missing.

Of course, the rule wasn't as hard and fast as it sounded. If someone was an exceptional athlete and their grades were...questionable...things were covered up so the person could still play their sport of choice so their team could continue their winning ways. Much to his mother's delight, Robert had never had that problem. His grades weren't exactly straight A's or anything like that but he did well enough to keep himself playing sports.

With an annoyed sigh, they were supposed to be practicing and not talking about school related things, Alan explained, "The story I know is that Anneliese Rose was just one of those normal kids. She was a Girl Scout, won medals for riding horses and helped to take care of her little brothers and sister. Her parents were good people--- still are good people as a matter of fact so don't go painting them any other way ---and they raised all their kids right."

Robert nodded his head, understanding what his father was saying. He, like everyone else in Arcadia, knew who Anneliese Rose's parents were. The town was small and everyone tended to know everyone else. Not only did they know everyone else, they knew what each of the other individuals in Arcadia were up to. Gossiping was almost a sport in Arcadia among the bored and the boring.

Her father, Jacob, was the owner of the local auto body shop. He wasn't exactly the nicest of people in Arcadia--- there were rumors going around that he had a major drinking problem that started around the time his daughter disappeared ---but everyone sort of tolerated him. After all, as it was said, he and his wife Kathy, a housewife, had gone through a lot after their oldest daughter disappeared. They were allowed their little...issues. Besides, it gave everyone in town something to talk about.

"What happened to her after that?" Robert asked, trying to get his father to continue the story even though he'd told him nothing new. "Mom always use to say that when she started getting into computers, she started acting weird. Is that true?"

"That's what Kathy said. She told all of us that her daughter started spending way too much time on her father's computer with the door locked. They should have known she was up to no good then, don't you think? That girl was probably on there talking to people from the Manhattan or Los Angelis or Houston...one of those big cities," Alan stated.

Staring at his son with a serious expression on his face, Alan asked, "You know what they say about people who live in those kinds of places, right Robert?"

Trying to hide a sigh, Robert mumbled, "Everyone who lives in places bigger than Arcadia have no morals and are only looking to exploit us because we have morals…girls especially."

Robert wasn't entirely sure why his father felt that way but it was what he'd told both him and his brother time and again. For whatever reasons he had--- Robert was starting to think something had happened to him while he was in the minor leagues that involved a place bigger than Arcadia. ---Alan disliked anyone who wasn't from a small town, especially the women. He'd told both his sons that women from larger cities were only out for one thing and they'd do anything to get it. They didn't care about things like commitment and marriage and being loyal to one person. It was best, his father had said, to get involved with a girl from Arcadia. At least they had morals.

"There you go," Alan agreed. "From what they could get off of Anneliese Rose's father's computer--- she did something to it before she ran off so no one could see what she'd been up to before she took off --she'd met someone named Elric online and he convinced her to run off with him. The police said he was some kind of cult leader or something but no one ever found out what he really was and no one has seen Anneliese Rose since."

A small frown crossed Robert's face. That was the same story he'd read on his own computer. The same story everyone in Arcadia knew. Whatever Calyx had meant for him to find by looking at the story, Robert just wasn't seeing it. There was no story behind the story. As far as he could tell, there was nothing there other than the story everyone knew.

The funny thing was that, even as his father handed him the baseball and proceeded to show him the "proper" way to throw a knuckleball, Robert still wanted to look. There had to be something there otherwise Calyx wouldn't have mentioned it. Robert was well aware of the fact that Calyx might have just been crazy--- She acted crazy enough in his opinion. ---and blurted that out for no reason but something inside Robert told him to keep up the search. There had to be some bit of information he was missing.

Besides, it wasn't just the story of a missing girl that Calyx wanted Robert to look up. She'd said that something was wrong with Major League Baseball. She'd said that once he found out everything he could about Anneliese Rose, to look at the website for the Major League Baseball. She said that he'd find that something other than the 19191 World Series was fixed.

Since the integrity of the game was everything--- not just to Robert but to every baseball fan who knew a thing or two or ten about the game ---he figured it was his responsibility to find out what that meant. If there was some way to help restore the integrity of the game then Robert felt he had to do his part. He had to bring that truth into the light too.

Sure the missing girl from his town and Major League Baseball's homepage didn't exactly seem to have all that much in common and it all seemed just a bit weird but, then again, Calyx hasn't exactly been normal. She, herself, had seemed very weird to Robert. Maybe looking at things in a weird way would help him figure out just what Calyx had been talking about.

He just had to figure out how to find out things beyond what he was finding. If there was another story out there, if there was some link between Anneliese Rose, Major League Baseball, and the strange figure that was Calyx, Robert was determined to find him. Besides, he figured it would be something to keep him busy and stop him from turning into the dreaded teenager he'd been warned about.


	4. Fourteen Years of Age

AN: Less than a week until Opening Day! I just got my tickets for this season's games at Shea Stadium. My mom, sister, and I go to every Sunday game the New York Mets are home. We go to other games too, of course, but we have tickets for every Sunday. It's fun…most of the time…except when the Mets are playing poorly. Then it's not really all that fun. Anyway, here's some more about a baseball player who'd starting to discover that there's more to the world than just how fast he can throw his fast ball. If anyone's read any of my other stories and if you squint really, really, really hard you might find a few clues about Pixie, my other original character, and possibly why she's run afoul of the Matrix. That's about the only connection to that story here, though. Anywho, thanks to everyone still reading this and please feel free to leave me a review! I'd love to know what you're thinking or what I should improve on.

Disclaimer: I own nothing except the characters I made up and their Real World alter egos. I don't own _The_ _Matrix_, _The Animatrix_, or any of that cool stuff. I'm broke and I just finished graduate school for my Master's Degree. All I own are my Pointe shoes.

"Little boy he adjusts his hat, picks up his ball, stares at his bat  
Says "I am the greatest when the game is on the line"  
And he gives his all one last time.  
And the ball goes up and the moon so bright  
Swings his bat with all his might  
The world's as still as still can be, the baseball falls  
And that's strike three." (From "The Greatest" by Kenny Rogers)

Though it seemed like only yesterday to Robert, almost a year had passed since the fateful meeting with the woman who called herself Calyx. Nearly twelve whole months had gone by since he'd started his search for the meaning behind the disappearance of the young girl named Anneliese Rose. A search that, despite his best efforts, wasn't exactly turning up any new leads even after almost a year. No matter how many times he found something about it, it was just the same story…written in a different way.

It was funny, to Robert-- though he was starting to think of himself more as Wheeler instead of Robert these days and not for baseball reasons anymore --just how much nearly twelve months could change a person. Everyone Robert--Wheeler --knew talked about how things changed once someone became a teenager. Everyone said to be prepared for the world to change, especially when one was in high school. They said it was like being a small fish thrown into a huge pond.

No one could prepare the young baseball player for just how different things were going to become for him. If he would have sat down and made a list of just how different things were going to be for him, this wouldn't have even cracked his top ten. Maybe not even his top twenty, Robert wasn't sure.

High school, for the now fourteen year old boy and according to his parents, was supposed to be the best time of his life. They'd insisted on that fact since he was a small boy, telling him stories about their high school days and the high school days of their friends.

According to everyone he'd ever talked to, Robert was supposed to find himself a high school sweetheart, someone he could settle down with once he go into college, just like everyone else in Arcadia. He was supposed to play baseball on the Varsity squad and get himself noticed by baseball scouts-- the actual ones and not the strange men in dark suits that Calyx had warned him about and that had a tendency to show up at every game he played --so that he could head straight into the minor leagues for some team.

What team didn't really matter to Alan so long as his son was in the minor league systems someplace. It just meant he was one step closer to his goal, though Robert wasn't too sure anymore who that "his" was. Was the goal of playing in the major league his father's or his own anymore?

College, in his father's opinion, wasn't necessary for his son. No, he was too good a baseball player to have to go to college. Only the players who weren't good enough to get recruited out of high school, the players who still needed more "polishing," missed recruitment out of high school. Robert was supposed to be good enough as he was at the moment to make it through to the promised land of the minor leagues.

That wasn't how things seemed to be working out, though.

The girls that went to Arcadia High, their local high school, held little interest for Robert. Almost every one of them reminded him of his mother in a strange and younger way. They all wanted their big ticket out of Arcadia and they saw Robert as their way out of town. Surely, he'd take his girlfriend with him when he left for the minor leagues. He'd get them out of the boring small town they all called home.

He'd heard his own mother admit once, to one of her chatty friends on afternoon, that she'd only really fallen for Alan because she thought he was her ticket out of Arcadia. A life of fame and creature comforts was what Faye desired. She wanted to be recognized as the wife of a famous pitcher not a local shop owner with two sons and a moderately sized home.

Robert couldn't help but think that the girls he went to school with were thinking the same thing. They wanted a ticket out of town, a ticket to fame and fortune, and everyone said he was destined to become a famous pitcher someday. What better ticket out of Arcadia was there?

Then again, the whole baseball thing didn't seem as certain as it was supposed to be either. Robert had made the Varsity squad by the literal skin off his teeth. There were far too many skilled juniors and seniors in the school to allow one little freshman boy to be a starting pitcher. No, Robert had been shunted to no-man's-land, the place where good pitchers went to die.

Robert had been-- or was in the process of being anyway --converted into a relief pitcher.

It was a role Robert was unused to and one his father felt he was completely unsuited for. Actually, Robert might have agreed with his father on that one. He really didn't like the whole waiting in the bullpen, far away from the action, for a possible chance to pitch gig. As it was, he hardly ever got his turn anymore because of all the seniors and juniors on the varsity team. Most games he sat languishing in the bullpen, staring across the expansive outfield and trying to remember what it was like to actually throw a baseball to a batter instead of to the bullpen catcher.

Robert knew he should have been more bothered by the fact his coach was letting less skilled people pitch ahead of him. In his head, the young boy knew he should have been as angry as his father was about the whole being converted to a relief pitcher thing. Robert knew he should have been in the coach's office every day demanding that he be allowed to start games once again otherwise he'd leave the team. Fits and threats should be been thrown within earshot of anyone who had anything to do with the team. Robert knew that, by hook or by crook, he should have found a way to be allowed to start games again.

The funny thing was that Robert-- well, more Wheeler than Robert despite the fact they were one and the same --didn't particularly care. He did care, in a way, but it wasn't as 

much as he thought he would have cared. He missed pitching once every five days but he didn't miss it as much as he thought he should.

Baseball had been the entirety of his world for such a long time that any change to it should have rocked his world. Without being able to identify himself as a starting pitcher for the Hornets, he should have been without an identity. He should have felt lost and adrift, betrayed by the game he'd given his heart and soul to for most of his life.

The funny thing, to Robert anyway, was that his world and his identity had changed some in the past year. Baseball was still a big part of everything Robert said and did but there was a part of him, Wheeler that was something else entirely.

After finding new information about the disappearance of Anneliese Rose through the "usual channels" turned up dead end after dead end, the young man decided to try a new way of getting information. If they "usual channels" failed him, there were always the more unusual, and probably illegal, ways to find information. Ways that if he were ever caught using, his parents would probably draw and quarter him before the police came to arrest him.

Robert knew of a few boys in his school that had a rather...interesting...hobby. It wasn't exactly a legal hobby and that bothered Robert just a little. Still, it had become obvious that legal means weren't going to get him the information he was supposed to find. Drastic steps had to be taken in order to find out just what Calyx had been talking about. In this case, drastic meant the possibility of doing something that just might have been illegal. Robert decided that maybe, just maybe, the risk was worth it. To learn just whatever he was supposed to about Anneliese Rose and about Major League baseball, drastic measures might have to be taken.

The young boy knew they were the people he needed talk to, the people he needed to get help from. Oddly and ironically enough, he'd grown up just next door to one of them. The two boys-- he and Gregory, his next door neighbor's son --had been thick as thieves until Robert discovered baseball and Gregory, like Robert's own brother Arthur, discovered he wasn't exactly the athletic type. That was when the divide happened between the former friends.

It had taken quite a bit of cajoling to Gregory, also known as Reaper, and his two friends to help him but Robert eventually did. All it took was him promising them-- Gregory, Mitchell, and Timothy --that he'd try his best to stop the baseball team from tormenting them at lunch. Like any high school, no matter how clichéd it was, the popular kids still made it practice to torment those who weren't as popular.

Not that Robert had ever done anything like that. As a matter of fact, he tried to stay on good terms with everyone. It made going to school a whole lot easier if he wasn't at war with certain parties and had to remember who his allies in said war were. If he was friends with everyone or, at least on good terms, he could concentrate on his grades and baseball. Well, mostly baseball anyway. There were other things that had his focus now.

It was the three of them, three budding hackers who'd banded together because of common interest and in the spirit of sharing knowledge that showed Robert just how to find the deeper meaning behind the disappearance of Anneliese Rose.

Taking the name "Wheeler," since he wanted to stay true to his baseball roots even if baseball and hacking were two totally different fields, Robert set about creating a new persona. One that wasn't going to be a famous baseball player someday. One that wasn't 

being chased by every girl in his high school in the hopes he'd take them out of Arcadia one day. One whose father wasn't telling him to take steroids in order to throw harder because, according to his father, throwing harder would make him a more desirable player and it would earn him his starting position back.

Wheeler, as Robert often thought of himself now, sat in front of his father's desktop computer, hands poised over the keys, eyes as wide as saucers he tried to take in what he'd just stumbled upon.

More than once Wheeler had heard the expression "The truth is stranger than fiction." He'd never set any store in the whole expression since fiction was, well, fiction. That was what made it more interesting than the truth because it wasn't the truth. The story he'd just stumbled upon, though, was stranger than the truth he'd been told. Anneliese Rose, according the story, was just a small player in a larger story. A story that had absolutely nothing to do with cult leaders, and a young girl being coerced into running away from her family because of it.

The story Wheeler had found during his day's searching was definitely something that the people in Arcadia wouldn't be able to tolerate hearing. They wouldn't be able to fathom it, understand its depth and just how serious it was. Well, serious in a way that seemed important to Wheeler but probably not to anyone else in Arcadia. If he were to tell them what he'd learned-- what he and the others had discovered thanks to Calyx's little tip --they'd probably think he was insane.

They'd say the stress of trying to pitch and be a "normal" high school student had finally gotten to him. Maybe his parents-- especially his mother since his father was keen on pushing him as hard as humanly possible. --would give him a break but he wasn't so sure about that. They'd probably just send him off for an "extended vacation" to his grandparent's farm so he could "heal" and get the so-called insane ideas out of his head. It was always easier, in Arcadia, to ignore a problem than to deal with it head on. Well, ignore it and then gossip about it behind the problem person or family's back.

The story he'd learned, the truth behind the disappearance of Anneliese Rose, only began like the story he'd been told so many times before. Other than that, though, the story was nothing like what he expected.

It was true that she'd met a man online named Elric. That was the only truth to the story that had riveted everyone in Arcadia then and was still talked about now. Other than that…the truth of the story was far stranger than the fiction everyone in town knew.

It had been Elric who'd, for whatever reason he had, introduced Anneliese Rose to the world of hacking and what he called "the truth." It had been this mysterious Elric character who'd pointed her towards the idea of "the Matrix"-- an idea just as mysterious as the true identity of Elric. The truth about the Matrix, as far as Wheeler could see it, was the goal of Timothy, Gregory, and Mitchell's hacking. --and had been the one to escort her out of Arcadia after about a few years later

It wasn't that story, though, that left Wheeler shocked. No, it was something else he'd found out about Elric.

The something that Calyx had hinted to when they met that day in the dugout. The something tucked away in the archives of the Major League Baseball website. Something other than the fact the commissioner of baseball knew more about how rampant steroid use 

was than he was letting on. That fact alone had enraged Wheeler for several days when he came across that bit of information but that was neither here nor there at the moment.

Wheeler stared goggle eyed at the file he'd just discovered. One he was sure was for him and him alone.

The file had been tucked in the bowels of the Major League Baseball website, headed with the phrase "The Baseball Ace." Wheeler guessed that the unassuming title-- after all the major league was full of aces of all shapes and sizes and positions and in stages of development --was to keep the file safe. No one was going to bother to delete some bit of data about an "ace" of some kind. The young boy guessed that everyone who worked for Major League Baseball assumed that it was some report about some kid from the back of beyond who could play baseball better than anyone in the history of the game...or something like that.

Either way, the young boy opened the file only because Calyx had called him "the baseball ace" on the day they'd met. It might have been a strange little coincidence but, still, Wheeler couldn't help himself. Using a trick or two that Timothy-- Abel --had taught him, the boy made short work of the firewalls that stood in his way.

The file he'd found had little to do with baseball and pitching and more to do with the man called Erich, the man, according to the note attached to the file by Calyx, who Wheeler should seek out. He'd be one of the people who could help Wheeler find the "truth" about the reality he was living in.

At least, he would have been anyway.

According to the file, which contained what looked like an information dossier about Erich, he'd been banned from ever entering "the Matrix" because he'd gotten involved with a "trapped" human. Not involved in the same way he'd been involved with where Calyx was concerned. That sort of involvement was condoned by whoever ruled people like Erich and Calyx.

Apparently he'd gotten some young woman-- named Thora Elisa Ford --pregnant despite the fact he was "out" and she wasn't. No one was quite sure how such a thing happened and, because of that, Elric had been banned from ever entering "the Matrix" again. He was no help to anyone anymore. Several months after his meeting with her, no one had heard from Ms. Ford either. She, like Anneliese Rose had gone missing and her child was presumed dead.

"I don't get it," Wheeler mumbled, speaking to him and the computer screen as if it could give him the answer he was seeking.

All of the information he'd found out about Erich wasn't exactly useful. He'd heard of the Matrix-- Who hadn't really? It was something many hackers chatted and debated about on a regular basis --but he wasn't sure about anything else he'd found out. All he did understand was the fact that Erich couldn't help him in the same way he'd "helped" Calyx and whoever Thora Elisa Ford was. He wouldn't be able to get information from this individual, whoever he actually was.

With a sigh, Wheeler guided his virtual personal to a message board he'd started to frequent, one pointed out to him by Mitchell or Booth as he called himself. Looking thoughtful for a moment, trying to figure out just what he wanted to type in the black box on the screen, Wheeler put his fingers to the keyboard and started to type.

The first line of his post...the title he chose for his little mark in the virtual world.

"What is the Matrix?"

AN: Here are some translations on the names used in this chapter. If you look carefully enough you'll see why they're important!

Elric- "Elf Ruler" in Old English

Thora- In Nordic mythology, the name of the wife of the Danish Elf King


	5. Fifteen Years of Age Part 1

AN: Three games into the new Mets season and one of our big name pitchers has gone down with an injury. That's right; in his first start of the season Pedro Martinez went down with an injury and will miss a whole mess of starts. Sometimes I wonder why the Mets even bother keeping him around. I get he use to be a good pitcher and that he's popular and everything but he breaks down more than an old car. That's never good for a baseball team. Nothing against minor league pitchers, but they're not always the best choice in big spots. I mean, after the amazing collapse of 2007, the Mets need to come out strong and having some kids pitch isn't really going to do that. Anyway, thanks to anyone out there reading this mess of a story, I appreciate the time you take out of your day to read it. Remember, please leave a review to let me know how I'm doing. Good, bad, or indifferent…I don't care! Just let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I own nothing except the characters I made up and their Real World alter egos. I don't own _The_ _Matrix_, _The Animatrix_, or any of that cool stuff. I'm broke and I just finished graduate school for my Master's Degree. All I own are my Pointe shoes.

"Now it's suppertime and his momma calls,  
little boy starts home with his bat and ball.  
Says, "I am the greatest, that is a fact,  
But even I didn't know I could pitch like that!"" (From "The Greatest" by Kenny Rogers)

Robert, Wheeler, whoever he was at the moment-- maybe he was one of the, maybe he was both. The young man just didn't know anymore. Maybe Robert and Wheeler were one and the same and maybe they were two different people living in one body. It was hard to tell most days. --had turned fifteen years of age only a few months earlier.

Even to him, what he was thinking sounded insane. It wasn't supposed to be a decision someone his age should have been thinking about making. Wheeler figured that he was supposed to be having fun, messing around with his friends on the baseball team and doing whatever it was normal fifteen year olds did in Arcadia, Texas.

There wasn't much to do in the small town anyway. The options, for him and for many of the people he knew, were play sports and got into some kind of trouble….not at the same time of course. No one liked getting into trouble on the football field or the baseball diamond, whatever your sport of choice was. There was also the always popular option of dating the small pool of girls their age in the hopes of finding that "sweetheart" they were going to marry someday. That was also considered acceptable behavior for someone his age in Arcadia.

Wheeler-- Though he hated to admit it, he found that his created persona fit him better than the one he'd been born into. --had tried doing almost all of that. He'd tried being just a normal kid from Arcadia. He'd tried acting the part just because Wheeler knew that would make his parents happy. Everyone around him acted one specific way, had always acted one specific way, and Wheeler knew that fact. He tried to make himself act that way, too, just to make things a little easier on his family. His mother liked gossip just as much as the next housewife in Arcadia but when the gossip was about her or her family, well, things changed drastically.

For some reason, though, it just didn't work for Wheeler anymore. The fifteen year old knew that it use to work for him-- He use to be just like everyone else in his hometown. --but now, for some reason, it stopped. For no apparent reason his parents or friends would understand, he couldn't force himself to be "one of the boys." It felt like he was a square peg and his parents, his coaches, his friends, the entire town was trying to shove him in a round hole.

No matter how hard they banged, it just wasn't going to happen. All they were going to do was get hurt. "They" meant both him and everyone around him. Sure it would hurt in different ways but the idea was still the same.

In an almost comical way, Wheeler knew exactly what was making him feel different from those around him. It wasn't something, he figured, everyone would understand but he knew…or, at least, he felt as if he knew. The fifteen year old just couldn't be sure. He could guess though, and like throwing a certain pitch to a player you'd never seen before, sometimes guessing was all you could do.

Wheeler was almost sure it was the same thing Calyx had felt before she'd "run off." It was probably the reason why she'd run off with Elric all those years earlier. It was a sense of almost…wrongness…about the world around him. There was something really rotten in Arcadia-- maybe the entire world too but, like his reasons for feeling as he did, Wheeler couldn't be sure. --but Wheeler couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe it was that sense that had forced Calyx to leave with Elric. Maybe he'd been able to give her the reason behind the wrong feelings.

As Wheeler sat at the end of the pine bench in the dugout, staring out at his high school's baseball diamond, the young boy felt distinctly and sharply out of place. The sense of wrongness has returned with a vengeance though Wheeler didn't really know why he felt like there was something wrong now. He was supposed to be paying attention to the game and not to the world around him.

What he felt was something more than the fact Arcadia was, well, Arcadia, a world unto itself. A world that felt, to Wheeler anyway, as if it was stuck in its own private little time warp. Something other than the fact he hadn't started a baseball game in almost a year and a half now. Something more than the fact the team's coach claimed he was a "hot head--" just because he got short with one of the outfielders during a practice because he'd been heckling him for throwing as hard as he did --and benched him for it.

The heckling thing was strange in and of itself. Wheeler always assumed he was, at least, acquaintances with everyone on the team and heckling wasn't exactly the best way to foster team spirit. He still counted Ben, who was catching at the moment since their regular catcher had a sprained thumb, as one of his best friends but Wheeler couldn't deny that they weren't as good friends as they'd been before starting high school. Something had driven a wedge-- one that started out small but had rapidly grown --between the once best friends. Now it was wide enough for others, including Ben, to notice it.

When Ben, finally, confronted Wheeler about the growing divide between them, the former starting pitcher didn't really have an answer for Ben. Not an answer that Ben was going to be able to accept and understand anyway. Instead, Wheeler gave his former battery mate the same lame answer about school work he used on his parents when they wanted to know what he'd been up to and why he was up so late some nights.

The funny thing was that Ben, just like his parents, accepted that as a valid answer. After all, between baseball and school they were all just a little busy.

It wasn't really school that was driving the two friends apart, no matter what Wheeler had told Ben. There was something else, something Wheeler couldn't tell Ben because the catcher wouldn't really understand. Despite his big talk about how he was going to leave Arcadia behind him someday and play for the New York Yankees or San Francisco Giants, Ben was just like everyone else in the small town they called home. He was content to stay in the sleepy little Texan town, just like his parents before him and his grandparents before that. Wheeler knew Ben would fit in nicely in Arcadia, probably take up his father's business-- Running the local green grocer --after his father retired.

Looking at the field-- a green gem under even under the harsh lights --, trying his best to focus on the game that had taken up so much of his attention, his time and his life, Wheeler put his head in his hands and sighed. The game, with all its plays and grand traditions, didn't seem so important now that he thought about it. Now that he found himself sitting, watching a game he knew he should have started if not for the run-in with his coach and the fact they, the coach and his staff, felt he threw too hard to start the game didn't seem as spectacular. If anything, it seemed more frustrating than anything else.

Besides there were bigger games being played. Games that didn't involve knowing the number of outs or just who was on base or even the score of the game itself. The games he was thinking about, the ones he'd found himself wanting to talk about, were ones that were being played with people's minds…or so one of the many stories he'd found went.

The little query he'd posted about the Matrix, the single line in some message board that had been taken down for some unknown reason, had turned into something else entirely. The more he looked for things about the Matrix, the more he found himself questioning just what the Matrix was…if it was anything at all.

The Matrix, Wheeler was quick to learn, was something that was hotly debated in hacker circles. Some said it was the combined governments controlling the world while others claimed it was nothing more that some clever advertising for what they hoped was going to be one really good video game or a movie or something to that effect. Ideas ran as wild as the information about the Matrix. Everyone had their own thoughts and theories and most of them were not shy about sharing them with others.

No matter what everyone thought, though, there was one constant. One thing that almost everyone claimed to know. Those who didn't, well, they were mocked and were "told" tales in an attempt to have their minds changed about their opinion.

The constant was the tales about people being taken out of the Matrix, just like Calyx had been years before. The details of how these people were freed were sketchy at best-- every story was based on something someone's friend told someone else's friend who told someone else who told them --but there was one constant even within the stories that were told. There was one thing that all the "believers," those who were sure people were somehow being taken out of the Matrix, felt was true.

In order to be freed from the Matrix, you had to know certain people. You had to come in contact with someone-- who this person or people were was also a hotly debated topic. To Wheeler, it seemed that there were many people who had the "ability" to take one out of the Matrix. --who had a way to get you out somehow. Just as Calyx had the now fallen Elric, you had to ask the right questions, walk down the right path, and muddle your way through a mess of information before you could get out of the Matrix.

If indeed you could get out of the Matrix, actually. No one was quite sure those stories were true either. It depended on who you spoke to and what their take on the whole Matrix thing was to begin with.

"I guess they'd all be on by now. Probably talking about something good tonight too," Wheeler mused, his mind wandering away from the game he was supposed to be paying attention to and heading towards the computer his father had bought for him as a birthday gift.

Hackers, Wheeler had always thought, were solitary creatures. They were people who were sort of dorks, who didn't like being around other people because they were, well, dorks. They were sort of socially stunted and didn't know what to do around other people. That was why they worked alone. It was just easier than working with other people. They wouldn't have to deal with uncomfortable situations since they were alone.

People kind of like Reaper--Gregory--, though he did have Able and Booth, Timothy and Marshall respectively, so maybe there were exceptions to the rule. Maybe not all hackers were loners. Just most of them, then, were loners who guarded what information they had like it was gold and refused to give any of their secrets out unless they "trusted" you.

Though, as Wheeler had learned, winning the trust of a hacker was not an easy thing. They were not a trusting bunch, hackers were.

Other than the three boys from Arcadia, Wheeler had managed to earn the tentative trust of a hacker who caked himself KWAN. It was Kwan that had brought Wheeler into his little circle of hackers. He-- at least Wheeler thought KWAN was a he. One could never be too sure about those kinds of things --wasn't exactly a famous hacker, not on par with any of the hackers who were supposed to be able to take you out of the Matrix, or anything but he did claim to know a thing or two about the Matrix. Kwan had a small circle of friends, Peanut, Angelfighter, Chian, and, most recently, Pixie, and it was with that small circle of friends that Wheeler found his virtual home.

Most nights, when his parents weren't checking on him every five minutes to see what he was up to, it was with that small group of hackers that Wheeler spent his time. He figured that, despite the fact hacking was, well, illegal; at least he wasn't doing anything too bad. He was just spending his evenings chatting with friends. Of course, he knew that if his parents ever got wind of that, well, things wouldn't be pretty.

The hackers he spent his time with were a…unique…bunch as far as hackers went, he figured. Each of them had their own theories on the Matrix, ranging from Peanut's conviction that the Matrix was just another way to sell video games to Pixie's philosophical musings on the Matrix, which seemed odd because she was only a handful of months younger than he. None of them was sure who was right and who was wrong when it came to the Matrix but the conversations they had were always lively and a whole lot more interesting than the game he was watching.

After all, and no matter what guise he was wearing, Wheeler always hated watching his team lose.

"Hey, LaLuce," shouted one of the seniors on the team, shoving Wheeler backwards against the dugout wall with a sneering laugh. "Coach wants to talk to you. I guess your sorry rear end is up. Someone's got to bail out the disaster on the mound."

Shaking himself free of his reverie, Robert-- no longer Wheeler because, really, Wheeler didn't play baseball. Wheeler preferred his computer to the leather covered spheroid Robert threw. --stood and walked along the length of the dugout bench. He knew he should have been glad to get the opportunity to pitch but he couldn't force himself to be. He didn't want to go out there on that mound, that lonely island in the middle of the green baseball diamond. Once upon a time, he might have wanted to in the worst way but not now, not today. He didn't want to be the one thrown out there because the team was losing. That was pity pitching at its worst.

Still, knowing that his parents were watching him, Robert took the ball from the coach and walked over to their makeshift bullpen. He had to get in a few tosses before he took the mound. Wouldn't want to hurt that arm of his, of course. Wouldn't want to ruin that part of his future...even though part of him did.

Maybe that was why he liked being Wheeler. No pressure on him, on the personality he'd created for himself. All the people who knew Wheeler were concerned about was how much he knew about the Matrix. They didn't care about what he'd do on the mound that night, in front of the angry Arcadia crowd

They'd be more interested in the information he'd found before the game started. That was just how they were. Pixie, fifteen like him, would be the most interested of all. He might not have actually known her but that fact he was sure of. She was the one who'd brought philosophy to their little chat room, despite her young age.

"Cut the speed, LaLuce," the bullpen catcher shouted as he caught Robert's pitch. "Ease up, man or you're going to hurt yourself."

"Sorry," the young boy called, catching the toss back to him. "Just how I pitch I guess."

"Oh right, Wheeler," the bullpen catcher, a freshman, sneered. "I heard about you. Now cut the speed. We're losing as it is and you're just going out there to get some work in. We all know that."

That might have been true but still Robert threw the ball as hard as he could, partly out of frustration and partly because that was just how he threw. He'd always just wheeled back and threw. Robert felt no need to change that now, that was the one place where he and Wheeler crossed. It was the one thing they had in common; it was the one place where the two parts of his personality intersected. Besides, maybe he could turn the game around and squeak a win out of the mess the game had become.


	6. Fifteen Years of Age Part 2

AN: Well, I went to my first Mets game of the season today and…they lost. I really don't like going to games when they lose. To make matters worse, it was extremely cold in the Upper Deck at Shea Stadium. All in all, not a good game! Anyway, enough about the New York Mets and on to other things. For all intents and purposes, this story is done…mostly because I'm out of song lyrics to use. Though SOME have expressed a dislike for the combination of baseball and _The Matrix_, I do have an actual story written about this character. Maybe it was a mistake posing this first, though. I'm not entirely sure and now I'm not sure I want to post this character's whole story. Maybe I will…maybe I won't. I haven't decided yet…but if you want, please let me know what you think. While we're on the subject of reviews, I'd like to say something. If you're going to criticize what I write, you're more than welcome to. Like I always say, I'm open to anything…good, bad, or indifferent but if you're going to leave me a negative review, perhaps you could make it a bit more constructive and a little less a display of your proficiency in the use of four letter words. Just a thought. Thanks to anyone who read this little attempt at a story and to anyone who's left me a review, thanks! Again, I'm always open to CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM….good, bad, or indifferent.

Disclaimer: I own nothing except the characters I made up and their Real World alter egos. I don't own _The Matrix_, _The Animatrix_, or any of that cool stuff. I'm broke and I just finished graduate school for my Master's Degree. All I own are my Pointe shoes.

"He says, "I am the greatest, that is understood,  
But even I didn't know I could pitch that good!"" (From "The Greatest" by Kenny Rogers)

Wheeler looked at the black space before him, his body stiff and still. Though he was standing completely still, his insides were shaking like leaves in the wind. The young boy found that he was, physically, afraid of the darkness before him. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what he said to himself, Wheeler found that here was no way he, despite the fact he was fifteen years of age, was going to be able to force himself to step into the yawning blackness before him.

When he was little, Wheeler had never been one of those kids who was afraid of the dark. He'd never had a nightlight nor did he have fears of monsters under his bed or living in his closet or wherever else monsters lived when you were little. Even if he had been, Wheeler knew he wasn't going to say he was.

At a young age, the now fifteen year old pitcher had learned not to question his father and not to say things that were contrary to what his father wanted to believe. If he dared to say something to the contrary, all he earned was a lecture and, even at a young age, Wheeler learned he didn't like those very much. He'd heard more than his fair share of them for just asking questions about the simplest of things.

Logically speaking, Wheeler knew there was no reason to be afraid of the darkness yawning before him. He wasn't afraid of the dark. It was just another four letter word like "pain" or "outs."

Maybe it wasn't the dark, then, that the scruffy looking boy was afraid of. The only other thing he could think of was the fact he was afraid of the truth. Afraid of what he might learn when he stepped across the threshold and into the darkened room looming before him.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out, calling on the calm he used when he pitched in big games, back when he'd been "allowed" to pitch, Wheeler continued to stare at the darkness before him, ignoring the fact it seemed to be staring right through him. He'd come this far looking for the truth-- disappearing from his high school's locker room all because a strange man, calling himself Vector, promised to take him to someone who would help him find the truth --so Wheeler figured he could go a bit farther. He could muster up the courage to go forward just a bit further.

Still wearing his cleats, a fact Wheeler only now noticed since they'd just come from his relief performance, the scruffy young boy stepped over the threshold and into the dark space. The door clanged behind him as it was shut from the outside, making Wheeler jump a good ten feet in the air. There was no turning back now that much was obvious from the sound he'd just heard. The door was closed and it was too dark to find any other exit.

Actually, Wheeler wasn't exactly sure how he was supposed to find the truth while standing in a pitch black old warehouse on the outskirts of Arcadia. He couldn't find anything in the deep darkness of the building. Not knowing what the space held, whether or not there was something there that could trip him up, Wheeler stood just in front of the now closed door, eyes straining to find anything they could in the almost absolute darkness.

With the thrum of electricity, one of the overhead lights, nothing but a weak, bare bulb, buzzed to life. The light drew Wheeler's attention to the center of the room, to a small pool of light cast from the overhead light.

It was in that small pool of light that Wheeler spotted a bald, pale man sitting rather placidly in one of the two rickety looking office chairs that had been pulled into the center of the room. The chairs were set at off angles around a small table, equally rickety looking as everything else in the room. It was a cobbled together set up, built of items that Wheeler figured they-- the bald man and the two darkly clad individuals who'd brought him here -- seemed to put together from items they'd found around the rusting buildings.

"So you must be the infamous Wheeler," the bald man said, taking in the bedraggled looking young boy before him. "I've heard a great deal about you."

The bald man-- One Captain Soren --had heard about Wheeler and the misadventure the boy had had with Calyx when he was younger. Soren and his crew had been watching the boy for several weeks, making sure to pay special attention to the rare occasions when he got to pitch, and they discovered that Calyx's fears for the boy all those years earlier had been warranted. Her going to speak to the boy and get him started on the path to discover truth was a smart decision despite the fact her captain--a young woman with dirty blond hair and a foul disposition who called herself Invisigoth --had punished Calyx for it. Wheeler might not have known it then but he was more of a threat to the system than he could ever comprehend.

Well, comprehend now anyway. If he was smart and did what Soren was hoping he was going to do, then he might be able to comprehend just how big of a threat he really was. He'd be able to understand the target he'd turned himself into just by playing a sport he loved.

Wheeler looked at the bald man, not really sure what to make of him. He was shocked that he knew his hacker name anyway. As when he'd been approached by Vector in the locker room after the game, Wheeler had reminded himself that he was a very careful hacker. He never left his mark anyplace, never made messes out of things so he might be tracked. He wasn't flashy nor did he want attention. He didn't aspire to be like the infamous Trinity or anyone like that. All he wanted was information that couldn't be gotten any other way.

"I am, sir," Wheeler answered, deciding that he should, at least, be respectful about the situation he found himself in. "I mean, sir, I do call myself Wheeler."

He was well aware of the fact there wasn't much politeness might do if this Soren person was a run of the mill crazy person but Wheeler figured it couldn't hurt. There was always the chance that the rather unassuming looking person sitting before him wasn't another crazy individual. There was always the off chance that he might have been Wheeler's ticket to the truth that had been eluding him in a rather annoying way just as Elric had been to Calyx and the, maybe, the girl named Thora Elisa Ford too.

If it was true that Soren was his ticket out, well, then he figured it would probably be smart to be nice to him. There was always the chance that he could withhold the truth from the scruffy looking pitcher if he was rude about things. Besides, both his parents made sure he knew he had to be polite to everyone, at all times. It was the…gentlemanly…thing to do after all.

"We've been watching you," Soren stated. "And, I have to say, my colleagues and I are rather impressed with you and what you've managed to accomplish. I do not mean just for your exploits on the baseball field either. Though, those feats are impressive in their own right."

A cold knot of fear settled in Wheeler's stomach, making it feel as if he'd iced down his stomach instead of his shoulder. Being watched was-- and not just on the baseball diamond on the rare days he pitched were all eyes were on him anyway --not an idea that made Wheeler comfortable. There was almost something stalker like about it and that was creepy in its very own special way.

"Watching me?" Wheeler prompted, speaking more to himself than to the other man. "How? When? Where?"

"That's not your concern right now,' Soren told the boy, gesturing for him to take the seat next to his. "What is of your concern, young man is just how come I sent Vector and Binary to come collect you tonight?"

Wheeler took the offered seat, laying his bat bag, which he'd taken with him from the locker room, on the ground next to him. A thoughtful look crossed his freckle covered face as he tried to pluck out the reason why he thought he'd been fetched from his locker room, paraded through the sewers and taken to the outskirts of the town he called home.

"Vector said that he could take me to someone who knew the truth about this world and about the Matrix," Wheeler answered, his voice hushed despite the fact there seemed to be no one else around. "He told me that this person could tell me what the real truth was and how the Matrix was connected to this world."

"Vector was right," the bald man pointed out. "My name is Soren. I know your name is Wheeler or, as you put it, you call yourself Wheeler. Perhaps because that name fits you better than the one you were given at your so-called birth."

As much as the scruffy looking young man didn't like to admit it, most of what Soren had said was true. No matter how much he, initially, hadn't liked being called "Wheeler," the name was not starting to grow on him. He was finding that he was identifying himself more and more as Wheeler and less as Robert as the days went on. He knew his mother would not be pleased if she discovered that her son was identifying more with a created persona then with his actual self but she didn't know that "Wheeler," the hacker, existed.

Only a handful of people knew about that version of Wheeler. To everyone else, "Wheeler" was a baseball player. He was a former ace pitcher who'd, suddenly, been thrown into the bullpen.

"I also know," Soren continued, knocking Wheeler out of his reverie. "That you are considered to be one of the best pitchers on your team-- A singularly gifted young man among your fellow players despite the fact you hardly play anymore--but I know you also feel yourself becoming distant from your team. You feel as if you know something they don't know. Is that correct, Wheeler?"

As much as he wished he could just lie and say that this bald man was another crazy person in the world, Wheeler nodded his head. As much as he wished he could say something to counter everything Soren had said to him, Wheeler knew that the point was made. It was out there and there was nothing he could do to change that fact. What was said was said and, honestly, it was true.

Since coming to meet Reaper and, of course, Pixie and the others, he'd grown away from the baseball player he'd thought himself to be. There was more to the world than just baseball. There was something else out there and whatever that something else was-- The Matrix, he'd come to decide --it was ruining the game he loved. Though, from what he'd learned from Pixie and the others, it might not have just been baseball that was being messed with. The Matrix might have been a bit more far reaching than that. No one was ever sure since, anyone who came close to finding out, tended to disappear without a trace.

"What is it you think is the cause of that?" Soren asked, fixing Wheeler with a stare that made the fifteen year old extremely uncomfortable.

"The Matrix," he answered, speaking softly as if the Matrix was a physical thing that might hear him talking about it and take some kind of revenge on him. "I don't think they know anything about the Matrix."

"You're a rare type of person, Wheeler," Soren complimented. "There are very few people like you out there looking for the truth. Only the most exceptional people become aware of the Matrix. The rare athlete that realizes the Matrix exists does so while on the field. They wake themselves to the truth and are often punished for their…transgressions.

Giving the tired, bedraggled boy an appraising look, he added, "You are different from them because you've discovered the Matrix in another way. Though, like a rare few athletes out there, the Matrix seems to be a plaything to you."

"What do you mean? The Matrix is something that keeps tabs on all of us. It's not something that you can mess with because it's bigger than all of us," Wheeler brought up, giving Soren the theory he'd been using in the chats he'd once had with Pixie and the others.

Part of his mind wondered if Pixie was getting the same treatment from some darkly clad individual wherever she lived. He knew something was wrong with the girl that used the name Pixie. She'd openly admitted to him that she was always ill but that she'd promised her mentor-- who wasn't a great mentor but he was all she seemed to have -- she'd try her best to stay healthy until he came back to get her just like he promised he would. Wheeler hoped that her mentor made good on his promise and came back to get her.

Of course, neither of them knew just where Pixie's mentor-- or the few other hackers they'd befriended --went. Maybe they all went to the same place but neither of them were sure. They wouldn't be sure unless someone came back to tell them and that had yet to happen.

"Yes, that's true. The Matrix is something bigger than all of us," Soren told the boy. "But it is not beyond us to exert a measure of control over it and it is not beyond us to see what it is."

Pulling something out of the inside of his black jacket, Soren added, "I can show you the truth about the Matrix, Wheeler. I can give you the answer to all of the questions you have discovered thanks to Calyx taking an interest in your left arm but there in order to get such information you must first choice."

The captain placed a small metallic box on the table that had been ignored the entire length of their conversation. A table that had a tall but dusty looking glass of water on it, though Wheeler had just noticed the water to tell the truth. With a deft motion of his hand, the man opened the metallic box to reveal what Wheeler thought were a blue and a red gel capsule. Maybe a pill or candy of some kind. The scruffy blond boy couldn't be totally sure.

"Taking the blue pill will end this meeting here and now," Soren informed the boy. "You will not remember me nor will you remember any of the events that have taken place tonight. Tomorrow morning, you will wake up and life will be as it once was."

Not pausing to allow the boy a moment to think, the suit clad man continued, "Taking the red pill will show you the truth. You'll learn what few others with your start have ever had the opportunity to learn."

Looking from the two pills to the bald headed man, Wheeler asked, "There's a catch, isn't there?"

Soren laughed and nodded his head. Despite the fact the scruffy looking boy was a baseball player; he was far from the atypical "jock." Behind all of his baseball skills, he was intelligent. There was more to him than just his baseball skills.

"There is indeed a catch,' Soren confirmed."If you want to know the truth, you must be willing to give up everything you know now. Once you see what's beyond the borders of this world, you will not be able to return to the life you knew."

Wheeler had already decided that he wanted to know the truth, whatever the price it was. Going with Vector, leaving his family behind as they waited for him in the parking lot of the school, was enough to make him realize that he wanted to know the truth. Being Robert, being what his father wanted him to be, wasn't the life he wanted. Wheeler had always wanted to play professional baseball but he didn't want to follow the path his father had set down for him. He didn't want to ruin the dignity of the sport he played by taking something to help him play better.

Maybe, then, it was time for Wheeler to make his own choices. Take the path less traveled and, instead of going with his skills on the baseball diamond, go with his recently developed skills with the computer.

Talking the red pill out of the box, Wheeler swallowed the gel capsule and washed it down with a gulp of the water from the dusty glass. When something didn't happen right away, Wheeler turned his bright hazel gaze over to Soren. A question danced in the bright hazel depths, a wanting to know what was supposed to happen next.

"Come with me," the bald man told Wheeler, watching the boy get up and stumble over his feet, still clad in their cleats.

It would be a long time before Wheeler ever picked up a baseball again and even longer before he had the courage to throw it. For now, all that mattered was the truth.


End file.
